AUTHOR NOTES: I'm sorry that my chapters have been so short lately. I'm
trying to fit a lot in here. I also have to reread a lot of The Two Towers
to make this accurate. Just bear with me. This chapter deals with some
pretty weighty issues so let it flow over you.
This is also the first time I have made a major plot change: here, I have some time between the Three Hunters' arrival in Rohan and the expulsion of Grima Wormtongue. I added a little over 24 hours time between. It allows for some nice tension and theatrics, which I adore. Hopefully, you will forgive my indulgence. I was inspired by the wonderful fanfic "Lie Down in Darkness, Rise Up from Ash" by Dwimmordene. It has since disappeared from FanFiction.Net, but please search for it and give it a read. It's exhilarating.
About appearances: apparently Eowyn has gray eyes. I picture them as being gray-blue: the color of the sea during a storm. Is Legolas blonde? Not in my mind. I always saw him with brown hair-it made him seem more like a Wood- Elf: sylvan coloring. As for the "Thranduil was blonde argument," well my mom's blonde and I have dark, dark brown hair: almost black. Tolkien himself said (of the Elves) "Their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finarfin"-a house that neither Legolas nor Thranduil were a part of.
But feel free to imagine the characters however you'd like. It is your imagination. It is the universe over which you have supreme control.
Chapter XIII - The Deceits of Grìma Wormtongue
Nothing was certain, only this: he would find no rest in Rohan-for she was everywhere. He could smell her on the air, he could feel the silk of her hair on his legs when he walked through the tall grass, he felt the smoothness of her skin as he ran his fingers over the cold, polished gold that was inlaid on the doors of nearly every royal building. Her breath was the wind: the smell of the fresh grass and water and gleaming daylight on curving fields.
At night he wondered how Aragorn and Gimli slept so peacefully. He found nothing more confusing than sleep at that moment. The unexplained limbo: one of the great mysteries cutting a clear boundary between that which was human and elvish. He would let his hands wander, allowing them to run up and down the length of his own body. He was trying to imagine what it would be like to feel her infantile, mortal hands on him. It was agony. He tried to picture the sensation of her touch but all he was left with was frustration and a gnawing hunger that made him sharp-tongued the next morning-much to Gimli's chagrin.
"What's the matter with you now, Elf?" the dwarf frunted. "So dreary and glib! Do you miss sleeping on the ground in the middle of nowhere?"
Legolas wouldn't reply. The desire was sharp and deep. He went off alone, as alone as he could be, seeking her out even as he sought solitude. But she was nowhere to be found. Longing was turning into acute pain.
* * *
Distantly, he thought of Arod and then Legolas found he greatly missed his forgotten friend. Arod certainly was not Ithildir, the last horse he had owned way back at the time of the Battle of Five Armies-since then, he had not bothered finding a steed with which to bond: he picked different horses from his father's stables whenever he needed to. But Arod was more of a horse than Ithildir or any before him: he was stronger and far more handsome. His coat was cloudy gray and he was gentle under the Elf, both trusting and curious.
Arod had been taken back upon their arrival into the little gold- painted city, and now Legolas' own curiosity led him exploring all through the capital. It was awkward. People would stop what they were doing and simply stare at him. He had never felt such mass scrutiny in his life. Children would cease playing and gape as he walked by.
"Look at his ears!"
"Look at that cloak! What color is that? Is it magical?"
"Look at his hands! Such skinny hands!"
"Look at his hair!"
"They say the Elf-Witch sent him here!"
"Look at his skin!"
"Will he work magic spells? Can he work magic spells?"
"Look at his *eyes*!"
"Look, look, look!"
They were just children, and human, and impossibly young-but he wished more than anything that they would give it a rest, or at least try to whisper more quietly. Humans had no tact.
But the children, damn them, had made him think of two who were sundered from him: he thought of Frodo and Sam, far away, inching toward the jaws of death, and he was here, being gossiped about by ignorant horse- people who knew nothing of his kind, who considered his very race to be a thing of myth and old wives' tales. And he was of no use at all. He was blinded by love, distracted from his goal. But there was nothing to do yet. He was useless-and most stinging of all, he was unneeded.
Even Merry and Pippin were fine on their own. Gandalf had proven that. What could *he* do? Aragorn was the leader, the one with a goal. Aragorn had a woman whose devotion was painfully obvious. It was so intense that it brought tears to the witnesses of their love. Despite what Elrond and the others may have thought, Legolas knew. He could understand now. He recalled, with a bitter smile, the thought that had run through his mind during the days before their departure from misty Imladris:
Legolas stood aloof from the others and watched their embrace with interest. Once, long before Aragorn had been born, Elrond and Thranduil had hoped a love would form between Legolas and Arwen, but they took to each other like brother and sister and no romance followed. Now he wondered how their story would end. He wondered if it could end happily, even in better times. *How can an Elf love a mortal?* he thought to himself. *It is naught but a set-up for a suffering that does not end. Aragorn is not Beren. Ah, but Arwen-she must be Luthien Tinúviel.*
"How indeed," he whispered to any who would listen-in this instance, the sun, the grass and the wind. But so much had changed in-to an Elf-such little time. Was this love then? This consuming thing? No: for this was cruel. Where was the release? The happiness? Where was the serene sensation that had inspired so many songs and ballads? Could he remember a world before Eowyn?
He realized, horribly, that he should be at home with-
His father. He had forgotten all about his father. He had forgotten home.
No. She had risen. She had blotted out the past. She was all. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. She was all around. She was the past, the present, and the future. She was their victory. She was their defeat. She was the glowing balance between the Free Peoples and Mordor-her power was terrible to behold. She was darkness and light, Eä, and nothingness, and she was he, and they were one, and they were naught at all.
He realized he had stopped in front of a great stable. The smell of horses, spicy and calming, wafted out. *Arod,* he remembered. He stepped inside, found he was alone, and took a moment with each animal, stroking their snouts, calming them with choice words in his language. Arod was there indeed, playful and dancing in his corral. He spoke to his friends in their silent tongue and the Elf spoke back. The other horses responded. They whinnied at Legolas, coaxing his touch. They were not lonesome, no; they spoke of their masters with the purest of love. They thought their riders proud, brave and beautiful.
*Eowyn, too?*
*Oh, Eowyn,* they whispered. *Here is one who knows Eowyn. Child of the Eldar, know that she is the bravest and the most beautiful of them all.*
* * *
"What are you doing here?"
Her voice was strong, though not quite reprimanding. She was, if anything, as curious as he. But the jolt of her voice startled him, and he realized that his distraction had meant he had not heard her coming. That was unheard of. His father would have shuddered to see such distraction in his heir-apparent.
But Legolas turned and faced her placidly, invoking the elvish gift of masking emotions, ignoring the thunder in his chest. "I wanted to see Arod again."
She was leaning against a carved beam of wood, one arm lifted to shoulder height, supporting her slender weight. She wore a dress of a bluish-gray cloth that matched her eyes. Her long hair was plaited into two messy braids that hung heavy down her back. The plaits gleamed like they were woven of the gold he had glimpsed in the caverns of Erebor long ago.
Her eyes showed interest in the Elf-she wanted to know more. "Arod: did you ride him here?"
"Yes."
She smiled at Arod who whinnied happily. "He's one of our best. It is good to see him happy though his master is dead." Legolas had forgotten that the horses gifted to them were now riderless because of orc-work. "How did you get in?" she continued, casual but observant.
Legolas tried to preserve the relaxed atmosphere, ordering his pulse to lessen. "I came through that gate, there. It was not locked." He paused. "Why? Am I not supposed to be here?"
"These are the Royal Stables, and we have never allowed outsiders to come hither."
Horrified, he looked down at the hay-strewn ground, hoping she did not notice the color draining from his face. "I am sorry, Lady Eowyn. I did not mean you or your people any disrespect."
There was a cool, calm moment of silence. He heard the shift of her dress as she brought her arm down. "I said not so. It is nothing, sir. You did not know."
He took a risk and looked up into her face. "Please: call me Legolas."
She tried the name out on her tongue: "Legolas...what a strange tongue your people have. Lyrical; it seems to flow like water." Eowyn turned to the black horse at her right, and she petted its downy snout with unreserved affection. "Legolas. What do you think of that name, Léod?"
Hearing his name from her mouth was torture. Her full lips traced each syllable like a kiss. Legolas turned his attention back to Arod who seemed to be watching the exchange like a bemused observer. Then there was tension in Arod's eyes as well. The horse was looking at something over the Elf's shoulder. There was a creaking sound. He and Eowyn turned at the same moment. A bony hand was pushing open the gate, and some morning light crept in, ruining the shady peace of the moment.
Then he heard Eowyn catch her breath as the intruder came in.
"What is *he* doing here?" came the screeching voice.
It was that little snake of a Man, Grìma. Would they never be rid of him? Legolas took his hand away from Arod's face and felt himself step back. But Eowyn stood stiff and still as a column of blue ice, staring like a cornered panther.
Grìma slithered closer. "You know the law! No outsider shall cross the threshold to the King's Stables! Your uncle will be wrath to hear of your folly, Eowyn."
"The law is old," she replied steadily. "I let him come," she lied smoothly. "He was kind to our horses and wished to see one he had befriended earlier. Besides, I am here to watch." She cast a warm eye on Legolas. "If the stories speak true, then we have little to fear of the Fair Folk and our steeds, save only that all the horses should become too fond of him."
Grìma came close to Eowyn, so close that Legolas felt the blood in his veins simmer with angry outrage. *Get away from her.*
"I do not like this one," Grìma said in a hissing whisper, not quiet enough to escape Legolas' Elven ears. "He is a member of a cold and powerful race. They can bewitch with a glance. I will not him with you, nor among our finest steeds."
Legolas forgot all candors, summoning as much Mirkwood princeliness as he could, and sternly said, "If your quarrel is with me, Grìma Wormtongue, then it is me whom you shall address." He set his jaw and made a point of looking down. "I meant no harm in coming hither, and despite what you may think of my people, I mean no disrespect to you, your customs, nor any of your kind, least of all Lady Eowyn."
"You know not what you say, Master Elf," Grìma hissed. "You know not the ways of Men: why would an Elf trouble himself to know of our customs?"
"I have never found it customary among Men to act without tact or wisdom, son of Gamlod. You are the first."
Grìma's face twisted with frightful rage, which was contrasted with the icy, emotionless countenance of Legolas. The following silence was heavy. Then, with a shrieking sniff, the short man whipped around and stalked out of the shady stable, and Legolas and Eowyn were alone.
Yet she was hurt. A blow had been delivered unfairly and it showed with wistful subtlety.
"My Lady?" he whispered, afraid that his voice would somehow draw back the Worm.
She shook off the moment and said quietly, "I'm sorry he is cruel to you. He is cruel to everyone." She looked at him sadly. "He always has been." Then, collecting herself, she turned and left through a different gate, swiftly walking in the opposite direction that Grìma had gone. It was as though she were an injured deer leaving a trail of blood behind. Legolas stood amazed by the pain he saw.
Arod extended his silken, gray head and nudged Legolas' arm. A message was lightly transferred through their touch: a memory was the gift, and he had been asked to be the receiver. A revelation was in store. Then the Elf closed his eyes and sank into a dream that came and enveloped him.
* * *
It was one of her darkest memories.
He felt the cramped smallness of childhood upon his form. He was short again, though Eowyn was a tall, proud child. The height change was strange and seemed alien, as though he had become a voiceless, base creature: so far in the past, long, long ago, had his childhood been.
The fear came, too. Into the room swept a dark, hunched figure, swathed in blood red robes. He crossed the floor without sound, gliding like a snake and suddenly he stood high and tall before him. The face seemed strange, for once being higher than his own: adolescence made Grìma taller than Eowyn. But what youth should have shown in that man's serpentine visage was not there-it seemed he had always had the sour expression of a Man tainted with orc-like wrath.
"Be silent, girl," the gnarled advisor whispered wetly. Then he bent slowly forward. Legolas as Eowyn felt himself shrink away with fear. But a bony hand reached out and caught his arm, pulling him closer. "Silent as you promised!"
His back hit the wall behind him: a wooden beam digging into his spine. How small he was! And how strong and vice-like was the grip of Grìma! He tried to fight, as Eowyn, but something snapped. He felt all strength leave: he was alone, meaningless, weak and young. There was nothing he could do-and he realized it with an urge to sob. But Eowyn was strong in him, and she would remain silent.
She was silent and still, even as the bent Man opened his hot, wet mouth and covered her own. Then there was overpowering darkness, and despite the crushing pressure and heat, they were lost in despair, and they were frightfully alone.
* * *
Then the vision mercifully ceased. He gasped for air and scared the horses with his sudden movement.
The horrified, empathetic sorrow he felt for Eowyn was then replaced with a fury so strong and menacing that it amazed him. He suddenly wanted to kill Grìma with his bare hands. He wanted to rip the life out of his pitiless form and grind him into the stony ground. He was fiercely livid. He was vengeance and retribution in a gray-green clad form, and he swore by all the oaths of his people, in silence, that Grìma Wormtongue would suffer greatly.
Arod neighed softly, longing for attention. But Legolas could give him none. He walked out of the stable into the sunlight with his fists clenched, making the Rohiric children scatter before him. He could taste the ferocious rage in his mouth, metallic like blood.
But then all the built up fierceness fizzled away into nothing. What could he do? He was nothing to her. He was nothing but an exotic curiosity come to play with her horses. He was no one. When would he realize that in full?
*Eowyn, Eowyn, Eowyn, I would give my soul to heal your heart.*
* * *
A little help was delivered, thankfully. Legolas stumbled upon a scene that was expected but irritating. Was he bound to her fate? He loved it. He wanted to always be there for her, to come at her silent call. He would be her slave if she but gave the word.
And here: hushed voices in an exchange that was tense and angered. He had gone back inside the main hall, meaning to seek out Gimli or Aragorn, or even Gandalf: he was in desperate need of voicing something to someone. He needed council, as he never had before. Galadriel would know what to do but she was far, and the cruel distance silenced her voice. And then the isolating thought struck him: he, Legolas Greenleaf, was the only Elf in the entire southern region of Middle-earth!
So as he scaled a wooden hallway, making for the small, narrow rooms given to them for boarding, he caught the voices in the air and one promised "Eowyn!" and the other spoke of the hated one. Without a second thought, he made for the sound.
He saw them facing each other. Eowyn was taller than Grìma, but the man was as dangerous as a poison snake and just as quick and crafty. Venom wafted from him. There was the essence that Legolas had felt when faced by Saruman in the wood: the link between the fallen wizard and this pathetic advisor was uncannily strong. But Eowyn was impenetrable and proud.
She held her ground well. Grìma went on and on about how much he disliked her current attitude of lenience regarding the visitors. He lectured on the dangerous power of Gandalf Stormcrow his three uniformly gray clad followers. And then he paused, perhaps for breath, and erupted in a stream of insults all aimed at Legolas, the uncanny, untrustworthy Elf. Such words about Elves Legolas had never heard even from Dwarves! Grimly smiling, he thought of what Gimli would do to Grìma now, as Galadriel's surname came up and was paired with less than lovely words. With a curt exhalation, the wiry little man ceased.
Then Eowyn spoke her part. She was not, she reminded him, a little girl any longer who would take orders from him. She would let her own heart dictate her actions with the visitors who were, after all, allies in their cause against Mordor-what was wrong with that? Besides, her uncle Théoden was no longer mistrustful of Gandalf, nor was she. He had tamed Shadowfax: that was a great and noble feat. And he came with aid.
Grìma opened his mouth to go on, but Legolas took that moment to step forward from his concealed place of being out of sight around a draped corner. He came with a light, measured step, and delivered a surprised look at seeing the two at odds.
But he ignored Grìma and turned to Eowyn with respect and said, "Lady Eowyn, I am new to this place and am not sure of my way. If you have the time, would you give me a brief tour of the central buildings?"
She grinned a smile that clearly said, "Thank you!" and nodded. Still facing Legolas, she shifted her eyes to look at Grìma. "We will continue this conversation another time. Obligation calls upon me."
Then they turned as one and left Grìma dumbstruck and seething to himself. By the end of the day, he had fled Rohan and the fears of Gandalf were confirmed. Yet Legolas rued the loss of Grìma Wormtongue: he secretly hoped that they would meet again, alone, in a place where the Man's pathetic screams would not be heard as Legolas used all his art to make him regret he'd ever crossed paths with an Elf. Vengeance was still very much due. When night came, he looked to Varda's stars and shamelessly asked for one such opportunity. After all, he had asked for very little.
But Eowyn wandered away from him for he had not the voice to call to her in a way she would understand. The one great wish of his soul was still heartbreakingly unfulfilled. Even Varda herself, and all the Valar assembled behind her, would never be able to grant his simple request.
-Fin-
As always, you had better review or I'll send blonde men on horses to burn your house down.
Continued in Chapter 14 - The Armory
(The Rohirrim ready themselves for the battle of Helm's Deep: and the friendship between Legolas and Eowyn is blossoming into something quite different)
This is also the first time I have made a major plot change: here, I have some time between the Three Hunters' arrival in Rohan and the expulsion of Grima Wormtongue. I added a little over 24 hours time between. It allows for some nice tension and theatrics, which I adore. Hopefully, you will forgive my indulgence. I was inspired by the wonderful fanfic "Lie Down in Darkness, Rise Up from Ash" by Dwimmordene. It has since disappeared from FanFiction.Net, but please search for it and give it a read. It's exhilarating.
About appearances: apparently Eowyn has gray eyes. I picture them as being gray-blue: the color of the sea during a storm. Is Legolas blonde? Not in my mind. I always saw him with brown hair-it made him seem more like a Wood- Elf: sylvan coloring. As for the "Thranduil was blonde argument," well my mom's blonde and I have dark, dark brown hair: almost black. Tolkien himself said (of the Elves) "Their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finarfin"-a house that neither Legolas nor Thranduil were a part of.
But feel free to imagine the characters however you'd like. It is your imagination. It is the universe over which you have supreme control.
Chapter XIII - The Deceits of Grìma Wormtongue
Nothing was certain, only this: he would find no rest in Rohan-for she was everywhere. He could smell her on the air, he could feel the silk of her hair on his legs when he walked through the tall grass, he felt the smoothness of her skin as he ran his fingers over the cold, polished gold that was inlaid on the doors of nearly every royal building. Her breath was the wind: the smell of the fresh grass and water and gleaming daylight on curving fields.
At night he wondered how Aragorn and Gimli slept so peacefully. He found nothing more confusing than sleep at that moment. The unexplained limbo: one of the great mysteries cutting a clear boundary between that which was human and elvish. He would let his hands wander, allowing them to run up and down the length of his own body. He was trying to imagine what it would be like to feel her infantile, mortal hands on him. It was agony. He tried to picture the sensation of her touch but all he was left with was frustration and a gnawing hunger that made him sharp-tongued the next morning-much to Gimli's chagrin.
"What's the matter with you now, Elf?" the dwarf frunted. "So dreary and glib! Do you miss sleeping on the ground in the middle of nowhere?"
Legolas wouldn't reply. The desire was sharp and deep. He went off alone, as alone as he could be, seeking her out even as he sought solitude. But she was nowhere to be found. Longing was turning into acute pain.
* * *
Distantly, he thought of Arod and then Legolas found he greatly missed his forgotten friend. Arod certainly was not Ithildir, the last horse he had owned way back at the time of the Battle of Five Armies-since then, he had not bothered finding a steed with which to bond: he picked different horses from his father's stables whenever he needed to. But Arod was more of a horse than Ithildir or any before him: he was stronger and far more handsome. His coat was cloudy gray and he was gentle under the Elf, both trusting and curious.
Arod had been taken back upon their arrival into the little gold- painted city, and now Legolas' own curiosity led him exploring all through the capital. It was awkward. People would stop what they were doing and simply stare at him. He had never felt such mass scrutiny in his life. Children would cease playing and gape as he walked by.
"Look at his ears!"
"Look at that cloak! What color is that? Is it magical?"
"Look at his hands! Such skinny hands!"
"Look at his hair!"
"They say the Elf-Witch sent him here!"
"Look at his skin!"
"Will he work magic spells? Can he work magic spells?"
"Look at his *eyes*!"
"Look, look, look!"
They were just children, and human, and impossibly young-but he wished more than anything that they would give it a rest, or at least try to whisper more quietly. Humans had no tact.
But the children, damn them, had made him think of two who were sundered from him: he thought of Frodo and Sam, far away, inching toward the jaws of death, and he was here, being gossiped about by ignorant horse- people who knew nothing of his kind, who considered his very race to be a thing of myth and old wives' tales. And he was of no use at all. He was blinded by love, distracted from his goal. But there was nothing to do yet. He was useless-and most stinging of all, he was unneeded.
Even Merry and Pippin were fine on their own. Gandalf had proven that. What could *he* do? Aragorn was the leader, the one with a goal. Aragorn had a woman whose devotion was painfully obvious. It was so intense that it brought tears to the witnesses of their love. Despite what Elrond and the others may have thought, Legolas knew. He could understand now. He recalled, with a bitter smile, the thought that had run through his mind during the days before their departure from misty Imladris:
Legolas stood aloof from the others and watched their embrace with interest. Once, long before Aragorn had been born, Elrond and Thranduil had hoped a love would form between Legolas and Arwen, but they took to each other like brother and sister and no romance followed. Now he wondered how their story would end. He wondered if it could end happily, even in better times. *How can an Elf love a mortal?* he thought to himself. *It is naught but a set-up for a suffering that does not end. Aragorn is not Beren. Ah, but Arwen-she must be Luthien Tinúviel.*
"How indeed," he whispered to any who would listen-in this instance, the sun, the grass and the wind. But so much had changed in-to an Elf-such little time. Was this love then? This consuming thing? No: for this was cruel. Where was the release? The happiness? Where was the serene sensation that had inspired so many songs and ballads? Could he remember a world before Eowyn?
He realized, horribly, that he should be at home with-
His father. He had forgotten all about his father. He had forgotten home.
No. She had risen. She had blotted out the past. She was all. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. She was all around. She was the past, the present, and the future. She was their victory. She was their defeat. She was the glowing balance between the Free Peoples and Mordor-her power was terrible to behold. She was darkness and light, Eä, and nothingness, and she was he, and they were one, and they were naught at all.
He realized he had stopped in front of a great stable. The smell of horses, spicy and calming, wafted out. *Arod,* he remembered. He stepped inside, found he was alone, and took a moment with each animal, stroking their snouts, calming them with choice words in his language. Arod was there indeed, playful and dancing in his corral. He spoke to his friends in their silent tongue and the Elf spoke back. The other horses responded. They whinnied at Legolas, coaxing his touch. They were not lonesome, no; they spoke of their masters with the purest of love. They thought their riders proud, brave and beautiful.
*Eowyn, too?*
*Oh, Eowyn,* they whispered. *Here is one who knows Eowyn. Child of the Eldar, know that she is the bravest and the most beautiful of them all.*
* * *
"What are you doing here?"
Her voice was strong, though not quite reprimanding. She was, if anything, as curious as he. But the jolt of her voice startled him, and he realized that his distraction had meant he had not heard her coming. That was unheard of. His father would have shuddered to see such distraction in his heir-apparent.
But Legolas turned and faced her placidly, invoking the elvish gift of masking emotions, ignoring the thunder in his chest. "I wanted to see Arod again."
She was leaning against a carved beam of wood, one arm lifted to shoulder height, supporting her slender weight. She wore a dress of a bluish-gray cloth that matched her eyes. Her long hair was plaited into two messy braids that hung heavy down her back. The plaits gleamed like they were woven of the gold he had glimpsed in the caverns of Erebor long ago.
Her eyes showed interest in the Elf-she wanted to know more. "Arod: did you ride him here?"
"Yes."
She smiled at Arod who whinnied happily. "He's one of our best. It is good to see him happy though his master is dead." Legolas had forgotten that the horses gifted to them were now riderless because of orc-work. "How did you get in?" she continued, casual but observant.
Legolas tried to preserve the relaxed atmosphere, ordering his pulse to lessen. "I came through that gate, there. It was not locked." He paused. "Why? Am I not supposed to be here?"
"These are the Royal Stables, and we have never allowed outsiders to come hither."
Horrified, he looked down at the hay-strewn ground, hoping she did not notice the color draining from his face. "I am sorry, Lady Eowyn. I did not mean you or your people any disrespect."
There was a cool, calm moment of silence. He heard the shift of her dress as she brought her arm down. "I said not so. It is nothing, sir. You did not know."
He took a risk and looked up into her face. "Please: call me Legolas."
She tried the name out on her tongue: "Legolas...what a strange tongue your people have. Lyrical; it seems to flow like water." Eowyn turned to the black horse at her right, and she petted its downy snout with unreserved affection. "Legolas. What do you think of that name, Léod?"
Hearing his name from her mouth was torture. Her full lips traced each syllable like a kiss. Legolas turned his attention back to Arod who seemed to be watching the exchange like a bemused observer. Then there was tension in Arod's eyes as well. The horse was looking at something over the Elf's shoulder. There was a creaking sound. He and Eowyn turned at the same moment. A bony hand was pushing open the gate, and some morning light crept in, ruining the shady peace of the moment.
Then he heard Eowyn catch her breath as the intruder came in.
"What is *he* doing here?" came the screeching voice.
It was that little snake of a Man, Grìma. Would they never be rid of him? Legolas took his hand away from Arod's face and felt himself step back. But Eowyn stood stiff and still as a column of blue ice, staring like a cornered panther.
Grìma slithered closer. "You know the law! No outsider shall cross the threshold to the King's Stables! Your uncle will be wrath to hear of your folly, Eowyn."
"The law is old," she replied steadily. "I let him come," she lied smoothly. "He was kind to our horses and wished to see one he had befriended earlier. Besides, I am here to watch." She cast a warm eye on Legolas. "If the stories speak true, then we have little to fear of the Fair Folk and our steeds, save only that all the horses should become too fond of him."
Grìma came close to Eowyn, so close that Legolas felt the blood in his veins simmer with angry outrage. *Get away from her.*
"I do not like this one," Grìma said in a hissing whisper, not quiet enough to escape Legolas' Elven ears. "He is a member of a cold and powerful race. They can bewitch with a glance. I will not him with you, nor among our finest steeds."
Legolas forgot all candors, summoning as much Mirkwood princeliness as he could, and sternly said, "If your quarrel is with me, Grìma Wormtongue, then it is me whom you shall address." He set his jaw and made a point of looking down. "I meant no harm in coming hither, and despite what you may think of my people, I mean no disrespect to you, your customs, nor any of your kind, least of all Lady Eowyn."
"You know not what you say, Master Elf," Grìma hissed. "You know not the ways of Men: why would an Elf trouble himself to know of our customs?"
"I have never found it customary among Men to act without tact or wisdom, son of Gamlod. You are the first."
Grìma's face twisted with frightful rage, which was contrasted with the icy, emotionless countenance of Legolas. The following silence was heavy. Then, with a shrieking sniff, the short man whipped around and stalked out of the shady stable, and Legolas and Eowyn were alone.
Yet she was hurt. A blow had been delivered unfairly and it showed with wistful subtlety.
"My Lady?" he whispered, afraid that his voice would somehow draw back the Worm.
She shook off the moment and said quietly, "I'm sorry he is cruel to you. He is cruel to everyone." She looked at him sadly. "He always has been." Then, collecting herself, she turned and left through a different gate, swiftly walking in the opposite direction that Grìma had gone. It was as though she were an injured deer leaving a trail of blood behind. Legolas stood amazed by the pain he saw.
Arod extended his silken, gray head and nudged Legolas' arm. A message was lightly transferred through their touch: a memory was the gift, and he had been asked to be the receiver. A revelation was in store. Then the Elf closed his eyes and sank into a dream that came and enveloped him.
* * *
It was one of her darkest memories.
He felt the cramped smallness of childhood upon his form. He was short again, though Eowyn was a tall, proud child. The height change was strange and seemed alien, as though he had become a voiceless, base creature: so far in the past, long, long ago, had his childhood been.
The fear came, too. Into the room swept a dark, hunched figure, swathed in blood red robes. He crossed the floor without sound, gliding like a snake and suddenly he stood high and tall before him. The face seemed strange, for once being higher than his own: adolescence made Grìma taller than Eowyn. But what youth should have shown in that man's serpentine visage was not there-it seemed he had always had the sour expression of a Man tainted with orc-like wrath.
"Be silent, girl," the gnarled advisor whispered wetly. Then he bent slowly forward. Legolas as Eowyn felt himself shrink away with fear. But a bony hand reached out and caught his arm, pulling him closer. "Silent as you promised!"
His back hit the wall behind him: a wooden beam digging into his spine. How small he was! And how strong and vice-like was the grip of Grìma! He tried to fight, as Eowyn, but something snapped. He felt all strength leave: he was alone, meaningless, weak and young. There was nothing he could do-and he realized it with an urge to sob. But Eowyn was strong in him, and she would remain silent.
She was silent and still, even as the bent Man opened his hot, wet mouth and covered her own. Then there was overpowering darkness, and despite the crushing pressure and heat, they were lost in despair, and they were frightfully alone.
* * *
Then the vision mercifully ceased. He gasped for air and scared the horses with his sudden movement.
The horrified, empathetic sorrow he felt for Eowyn was then replaced with a fury so strong and menacing that it amazed him. He suddenly wanted to kill Grìma with his bare hands. He wanted to rip the life out of his pitiless form and grind him into the stony ground. He was fiercely livid. He was vengeance and retribution in a gray-green clad form, and he swore by all the oaths of his people, in silence, that Grìma Wormtongue would suffer greatly.
Arod neighed softly, longing for attention. But Legolas could give him none. He walked out of the stable into the sunlight with his fists clenched, making the Rohiric children scatter before him. He could taste the ferocious rage in his mouth, metallic like blood.
But then all the built up fierceness fizzled away into nothing. What could he do? He was nothing to her. He was nothing but an exotic curiosity come to play with her horses. He was no one. When would he realize that in full?
*Eowyn, Eowyn, Eowyn, I would give my soul to heal your heart.*
* * *
A little help was delivered, thankfully. Legolas stumbled upon a scene that was expected but irritating. Was he bound to her fate? He loved it. He wanted to always be there for her, to come at her silent call. He would be her slave if she but gave the word.
And here: hushed voices in an exchange that was tense and angered. He had gone back inside the main hall, meaning to seek out Gimli or Aragorn, or even Gandalf: he was in desperate need of voicing something to someone. He needed council, as he never had before. Galadriel would know what to do but she was far, and the cruel distance silenced her voice. And then the isolating thought struck him: he, Legolas Greenleaf, was the only Elf in the entire southern region of Middle-earth!
So as he scaled a wooden hallway, making for the small, narrow rooms given to them for boarding, he caught the voices in the air and one promised "Eowyn!" and the other spoke of the hated one. Without a second thought, he made for the sound.
He saw them facing each other. Eowyn was taller than Grìma, but the man was as dangerous as a poison snake and just as quick and crafty. Venom wafted from him. There was the essence that Legolas had felt when faced by Saruman in the wood: the link between the fallen wizard and this pathetic advisor was uncannily strong. But Eowyn was impenetrable and proud.
She held her ground well. Grìma went on and on about how much he disliked her current attitude of lenience regarding the visitors. He lectured on the dangerous power of Gandalf Stormcrow his three uniformly gray clad followers. And then he paused, perhaps for breath, and erupted in a stream of insults all aimed at Legolas, the uncanny, untrustworthy Elf. Such words about Elves Legolas had never heard even from Dwarves! Grimly smiling, he thought of what Gimli would do to Grìma now, as Galadriel's surname came up and was paired with less than lovely words. With a curt exhalation, the wiry little man ceased.
Then Eowyn spoke her part. She was not, she reminded him, a little girl any longer who would take orders from him. She would let her own heart dictate her actions with the visitors who were, after all, allies in their cause against Mordor-what was wrong with that? Besides, her uncle Théoden was no longer mistrustful of Gandalf, nor was she. He had tamed Shadowfax: that was a great and noble feat. And he came with aid.
Grìma opened his mouth to go on, but Legolas took that moment to step forward from his concealed place of being out of sight around a draped corner. He came with a light, measured step, and delivered a surprised look at seeing the two at odds.
But he ignored Grìma and turned to Eowyn with respect and said, "Lady Eowyn, I am new to this place and am not sure of my way. If you have the time, would you give me a brief tour of the central buildings?"
She grinned a smile that clearly said, "Thank you!" and nodded. Still facing Legolas, she shifted her eyes to look at Grìma. "We will continue this conversation another time. Obligation calls upon me."
Then they turned as one and left Grìma dumbstruck and seething to himself. By the end of the day, he had fled Rohan and the fears of Gandalf were confirmed. Yet Legolas rued the loss of Grìma Wormtongue: he secretly hoped that they would meet again, alone, in a place where the Man's pathetic screams would not be heard as Legolas used all his art to make him regret he'd ever crossed paths with an Elf. Vengeance was still very much due. When night came, he looked to Varda's stars and shamelessly asked for one such opportunity. After all, he had asked for very little.
But Eowyn wandered away from him for he had not the voice to call to her in a way she would understand. The one great wish of his soul was still heartbreakingly unfulfilled. Even Varda herself, and all the Valar assembled behind her, would never be able to grant his simple request.
-Fin-
As always, you had better review or I'll send blonde men on horses to burn your house down.
Continued in Chapter 14 - The Armory
(The Rohirrim ready themselves for the battle of Helm's Deep: and the friendship between Legolas and Eowyn is blossoming into something quite different)